


Till It was a Battle Cry

by jusrecht



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: BAMF!Newt, Consensual, Dark!Newt, Dark!Percival, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mentions of bestiality, Percival is Odette, Rimming, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, but they're happy so what can i say, kind of, part swan lake AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 15:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13662171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: Grindelwald haunts Percival's dreams. Newt decides it has to stop.





	Till It was a Battle Cry

**Author's Note:**

> So this started as a Swan Lake AU in mind. Grindelwald cursed Percival into his Patronus form (a panther, BEAR WITH ME OKAY) and he could only turn back into human at night. When there's a moon. And so now Percival is living inside Newt's case. Except the plot kinda got away from me and then a wild smut appeared and sappiness took over and yeah. Enjoy anyway?
> 
> The title came from "The Call" by Regina Spektor.  
>   
> 

“Newton, Newton, Newton.”

 

It’s the wrong voice, is the first thought that crosses Newt’s mind as he watches a foppish young man slide into the opposite chair. The wrong face too, as it turns out. The hair is darker, longer, slicked back neatly to expose an elegant forehead and eyes that mirror the sky in summer. The clothes, too, are a practice in inversion. Instead of long coats as dark as night, he flaunts a well-tailored summer suit in the palest shade of grey.

 

A well-thought-of disguise; Newt finds himself admiring it a little despite their circumstances. Attention to every detail and certainly a much better fit for this environment than his own clothes can ever hope to be. Newt builds his wardrobe with practicality in mind, and in one of the most fashionable restaurants in Paris, practicality has very little value.

 

“Good afternoon, Mr Grindelwald,” he says politely.

 

The name provokes a grimace from the handsome stranger. “Please, I’ll be much obliged if you don’t call me that.” Even his English is soaked by a charming French accent—more attention to detail. “A waste of this beautiful disguise, don’t you think?”

 

Newt is tempted to roll his eyes but resists the urge at the last moment. “Very well, Mr Wood.”

 

Grindelwald sighs, a mocking, exaggerated sound. “No tact at all,” he shakes his head. At that moment, a waiter appears at their table. A highly technical conversation follows as Grindelwald discusses choices of apéritif and hors d’oeuvres in perfect French. Newt uses the chance to observe him. Disguised or not, there is no mistaking the man sitting in front of him. It’s the way he carries himself, the careless grace that slips into every gesture from the nod of his head to the flick of his fingers.

 

Newt remembers exactly how Grindelwald behaved, enthroned in the bleak interrogation room, wearing Percival’s face.

 

A few minutes later, the waiter departs with a discreet bow and Grindelwald returns his attention to him. “How do you find your scrutiny?” he asks with a sarcastic twist of a smile.

 

Newt settles for bland honesty. “It’s a very good disguise.”

 

“Thank you. One of my favourites, as it happens. You’re looking very well yourself, if a bit peaky.”

 

“Haven’t had much sleep lately.” Newt keeps his tone light, but the accusation is there, crawling under every syllable.

 

To his disappointment, Grindelwald doesn’t rise to the bait. “I’m very happy that you asked for a meeting,” he says instead, taking a cheese stick from the bread basket. “Surprised, but happy.”

 

“I wish I could say the same.”

 

“Dear Newton, always so coy.”

 

“I’d like you to give me the Soul Stone.”

 

“Or not.” The grin on Grindelwald’s face is sharp. “I was hoping that you’d save the unpleasant subjects for dessert.”

 

“I’m afraid I can’t stay for long,” Newt murmurs.

 

“Are you sure? The quail and chestnuts is really very good. No?” Another long-suffering sigh. Grindelwald makes a show of dropping the uneaten half of his bread into an empty plate. “Very well, we shall talk business. Business means trade. You want something from me, then you must offer me something in return. Dazzle me, darling. Tell me your highest bid and why I should consider accepting it. I’m listening.”

 

“I have nothing to offer you,” Newt tells him.

 

Grindelwald clicks his tongue. “We both know that isn’t true.”

 

This time, Newt has to suppress a scoff. Impatience has never been his particular weakness, but dealing with Grindelwald really puts his limits to the test. The man likes games; that much he has known since finding Percival in the grip of nightmares nearly every night for a week. Then the torment ceased, lulling them into a false sense of security until it happened again two months later.

 

It didn’t take them long to recognise that these were no ordinary nightmares. Someone was orchestrating this abominable experiment—and once they had come to that conclusion, it was easy to guess the hands pulling the strings. They tried everything. Spells. Counter spells. Dreamcatchers. Purifying rituals. None produced any result. The Dreamless Potion came next, rife with multitude of unpleasant side-effects. It worked for a while, but it also left Percival restless and bad-tempered and he hated it. Hated the taste. Hated to succumb under its influence every time he needed to sleep. Hated the dependency.

 

And then there was that other side of him, the beautiful feline, and _he_ took to the Dreamless Potion much less kindly than a human body does. Percival had born with it until he woke up one day to a sight even more terrible than the nightmares. Newt tried to convince him that it was all right; broken bones could heal (Dougal was a very good nurse) and the bites, well, they looked bad but they really weren’t _that_ terrible—and if he hadn’t adored the feel of a panther’s cock inside him, he certainly did now.

 

Percival said nothing but stopped taking the potion. He took care of Newt (in that determined but a little lost way that endears him endlessly to Newt), but made a point not to sleep around him. Mercifully, the nightmares ceased. So far they haven’t come back.

 

Newt’s plan is simple. Any connection that powerful, enough to enter one’s dream, can only mean a Soul Stone, made from one’s literal flesh and blood. It will allow whoever has the stone to locate (and in this case, _haunt_ ) the person from whose flesh it was made. Grindelwald has Percival’s Soul Stone, which means that Newt has to find him. And do a little diplomacy.

 

“I do, however, have a proposition,” he continues, ducking his head as a gesture of submission.

 

It never fails to reach its intended effect. Grindelwald’s hands relax, his guard lowered—only a fraction and just for a second, but it’s all the time Newt needs to reach into his sleeve and deposit a cocoon in the middle of the table, between the salt and pepper eggs. Speed is the only thing in which he fares better than anyone else he knows.

 

“I trust you know what this is,” he says pleasantly, trying not to feel _too_ triumphant. Only the first part is done.

 

Grindelwald says nothing for some time. The air of debonair nonchalance has suddenly disappeared, replaced by taut vigilance. Clearly the moment of his capture is still fresh in his mind.

 

“My old friend, isn’t it?” he finally says. The careless tone doesn’t fool Newt. Neither does he try to correct him. Beatrice is still poised inside his sleeve, scenting her old prey; Peter is younger, less patient, more volatile.

 

“I’d advise you not to make any sudden movement,” Newt says instead. “He doesn’t like it.”

 

Grindelwald eyes the cocoon like a snake would a jarvey. “I suppose he does eat brains.”

 

“Voraciously.”

 

“And he’s impervious to spells?”

 

“Most of them, including the Unforgivable.”

 

“Well,” Grindelwald clasps his hands together on the table, “then I’m afraid I must warn you, Newton, that the moment that creature moves, I’m going to destroy this entire block to dust, including the two of us. Now that seems to put us on an impasse, doesn’t it?”

 

Newt meets those ruthless eyes and allows a tiny smile on his lips. “I have no intention to kill us both.”

 

“Only me, then?”

 

“No.” He shakes his head. “You’re not mine to kill.”

 

“Of course.” Grindelwald smiles sharply. “Dear Newton, always so considerate.”

 

“Not considerate, just sensible. I know I can’t defeat you.”

 

“How wise. But that doesn’t seem to explain why that creature of yours is sitting on our table.”

 

“He’s here to… strengthen my argument, I suppose.” Newt takes a deep breath to prepare himself. “The truth is, you have no real use of the Soul Stone. It’s only a tool for you to have your amusement. You like having power over others, and to haunt someone in their dream, turning it into nightmare, well, that’s how you get your kicks. But amusing as it is, it doesn’t further your cause. Percival is no longer MACUSA’s director. He is of no use to you right now, so there’s really no reason for you to keep the stone.”

 

A familiar smirk comes to Grindelwald’s face. “Darling Newton. You think too little of yourself and your pet.”

 

That makes Newt scowl. “He’s not my pet.”

 

“Really? After all my efforts? Such a waste. I would’ve thought he was exactly your type, a ferocious beast like that.”

 

Newt can feel a hex rising to his fingertips but curls his hand to suppress it. “You haven’t answered my proposition,” he says instead, returning to their earlier subject.

 

Grindelwald smiles, as a parent will to a whimsical child. “I’m afraid your speculations are only half correct. A wizard as powerful as he is? Believe me, my dear, he’s worth more than you think, with or without my modification. And it the upcoming war, we will need every hand on deck. Someone like him can make all the difference.”

 

“He will never fight for you. Or with you.”

 

Grindelwald sighs. “Yes, I should’ve approached him more gently, shouldn’t I? That was a miscalculation on my part. But in my defence, our Percy played his part very well. Never in a million years would I have guessed that the good Director might be amenable to my way of thinking.” He pauses, pale eyes flitting over Newt’s face. “And you, my darling. You’re unique. Your ability to consort with the wildest, most dangerous creatures of our world is truly one of a kind. If you think I have no interest in keeping an eye on you, then, well, I suggest you think again.”

 

Newt does. He can see it now, the way Grindelwald sets about to conquer the world: one praise at a time. He knows his own worth, the way the world sees and fears him. Notoriety is a kind of fame, after all. To hear that a wizard as dangerous, as powerful as he is thinks so highly of one gives a kind of rush impossible to match by anything else. A dreadfully effective method, Newt can imagine. Pride does come before a fall.

 

Newt has no illusions about himself. Perhaps Grindelwald speaks the truth; perhaps he doesn’t. The end result will not change.

 

“I will never help you either,” he says truthfully.

 

“You haven’t heard my offer yet.”

 

“It doesn’t matter. Perhaps it would have, once, but not anymore.”

 

Grindelwald’s lips curl into a mocking smile. “I suppose I did some great wrong to miss this sterling opportunity?”

 

“You hurt him,” Newt replies evenly, holding his gaze. “You hurt my Percival. I don’t take kindly to anyone who hurts those I love, Mr _Grindelwald_.”

 

“Ah, love.” Grindelwald shakes his head. “Such a pesky little thing.”

 

“The stone, please.”

 

Grindelwald lifts his hand. It’s as if time has slowed into a trickle, the rest of the world moving thickly, slowly, as if in amber. The deliberate show of prowess is only a prelude, before the centrepiece appears a moment later, floating on Grindelwald’s open palm. Newt swallows a gasp as he stares at the stone, deep red in colour, linked to a silver chain. The redness bleeds, drowning every other colour until they recede into dullness.

 

It’s part of his Percival. He recognises it as surely as he’ll recognise his own hands anywhere.

 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Grindelwald’s voice is oddly soft—a siren’s call. “Quite a soul your Percival has. Or _had_? It must be blacker now. Does he still desire revenge?”

 

Newt shakes himself with some effort, away from the stone’s spell. “He will have his revenge,” he says, _vows_. “But for now I will have the stone.”

 

Grindelwald laughs. It’s a thin, malicious sound. “Come, Newton, business is business. Everything has their worth. A flawed theory and a threat for this exquisite little thing? I can’t say I’m very impressed.”

 

Newt nods. He is careful to meet Grindelwald’s eyes when he says, “Under Peter’s cocoon is a piece of paper. There’s a name on it. The spy you’ve been looking for inside your ranks.”

 

Grindelwald makes no reaction for some time. When he does, it’s mild, measured, deliberately so—and that’s how Newt knows that he has struck the right bargaining piece.

 

“How do I know that you’re telling the truth?”

 

“You don’t,” Newt admits simply. “But I don’t think you’ll be able to resist, if only to know whose name I’ve written. One tiny leak is all it takes to undo years of planning.”

 

“Too risky, even for a gamble.”

 

“Once you’ve seen the name, you’ll know.”

 

“More castles in the air.”

 

“Still more substantial than the stone in your hand. It will never lead you anywhere.”

 

Grindelwald is silent for some time. Newt tries to calm himself down by counting his own breaths. Inhale, then exhale. Beatrice shifts inside his sleeve, sensing his nervousness. Newt takes what comfort he can from the small brush of movement. He cannot fail.

 

“I do hope you realise what you’re delivering into my hand,” Grindelwald says at last. When he puts the Soul Stone on the table, it’s with deliberate slowness, some distance away from Peter’s cocoon.

 

Newt has to physically restrain himself not to snatch it away at once. “A good person,” he says dully.

 

“Indeed. And this good person will learn just how now _not good_ I am when dealing with traitors.”

 

“I’ve surmised as much.”

 

“I’ll make sure to send your flowers when I’m done with them. _Darling Newton, for your invaluable help, my endless gratitude et cetera. Your not-so-good G._ ”

 

Newt raises his eyes then. “There is no need,” he says quietly. “I’ve delivered your spy in the Ministry into my brother’s good hand, so all in all, it’s even.”

 

Grindelwald stares at him for a moment, and then breaks into a laugh. “Oh, Newton, Newton. How the world underestimates you.”

 

“Any reputation has its uses.” Carefully, Newt reaches across the table and closes his fingers around the Soul Stone. It feels warm on his calloused palm.

 

“I have no doubt.” There is amusement, almost fondness, in Grindelwald’s drawling voice. “You’re not really against my belief, are you?”

 

“I understand your point of view,” Newt answers honestly. “But I have no interest in your crusade. And the way you go about it, it’s really too brutal for my taste.”

 

The smirk is sharper this time. “I’m not sure you’re the right person to talk about brutality, darling. Or have you forgotten what you did in Arnhem?”

 

“No, I haven’t,” Newt replies quietly.

 

“I used to have quite a following there, but now…” Grindelwald sighs, shaking his head dramatically. “I would’ve called it artistic if it weren’t so, well, brutal.”

 

“Unfortunately, it was the only way to get your attention.”

 

“We can conquer the world, you know.”

 

“Is that what you told Professor Dumbledore?”

 

Grindelwald’s fingers twitch. Newt hides a flinch, silently cursing his own mouth. It’s a reckless thing to say, the one hallowed ground nobody may trespass. Dark clouds linger over Grindelwald’s expression, and Newt realises how close he was to being burned, or tortured, or worse.

 

“My apologies, but I’m afraid I must leave now.” Newt stands up quickly and takes Peter with him. “Thank you, Mr Wood, for your kindness. Please enjoy your dinner.”

 

He is almost at the door when Grindelwald’s voice echoes in his ears.

 

_Kiss your pet hello for me, will you?_

 

 

–

 

 

Newt has barely taken one step out of the shed when he is tackled to the ground.

 

The fall knocks the breath out of him. He blinks at the fur in his eyes, the feel of a warm solid weight engulfing the length of his body. There are times when he forgets how big his panther is.

 

“Percy,” he starts, but an angry growl cuts him off, followed by a sharp bite to the juncture of his neck. Newt cries out, but before he can word his protest, there is a rough pull of Apparition engulfing him. The teeth on his neck sink, a fraction deeper, and the sharp pain frays, bursts, floods his entire system until he falls on solid ground.

 

Newt is gasping when he opens his eyes again. Darkness has fallen, cloaked by silence. He is lying on his stomach and the floor is strewn with leaves. They lend a kind of softness that is both comforting and deceptive, but Newt is used to both. He raises his neck slightly. It’s the heart of the forest, where the air is thickest with magic. Percival’s domain is a fortress of more than just trees and mute rocks. The moon is high and cold in the sky, past a sparse canopy of leaves. Here, it’s always night. Home is a place where a man can be himself—or, in this case, walks on two feet instead of four.

 

The weight on his back has changed. There is none of the softness of fur, or the threat of sharpness on his neck. Instead, a pair of unforgiving hands hold him down. 

 

“You went to see him, didn’t you?” Percival says. There is so much fury in the low rasp of his voice that Newt can almost feel it under his skin.

 

“Yes,” he says—and finds himself with a mouthful of leaves when Percival pushes him flat on the ground.

 

“How _dare_ you.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps through the invaders in his mouth, all meekness and contrition, but the show of it only makes Percival angrier.

 

“You don’t get to say sorry after something like that.”

 

Newt would have said something else, but Percival’s hand slips from his shoulder, to the front of his trousers—and Newt makes a high, keening sound at the sudden pressure. He’s hard—hardening again when Percival laughs, callous and triumphant, and spits some filthy words in his ears.

 

“Dirty little whore.”

 

Newt moans something in return, probably ‘please’. Now that he’s conscious of his desire, it’s the only thing he can think about. Percival’s fingers leave his aching cock, but before he can protest, they have clasped over his mouth.

 

“Did he hurt you?”

 

Newt shakes his head, breath stuttering. He can feel the weight of Percival’s cock on the back of his thigh, and the thought of it makes his mouth flood with want. He dares the smallest shift, arching his spine, just a little, until he can brush against the hot hard length.

 

Percival’s reaction is as swift, as violent as a storm. He grabs the back of Newt’s head and pushes him down roughly, cheek flat on the ground.

 

“Still gagging for a cock even now,” Percival spits, words dripping with disdain. Newt gasps, the smell of damp earth in his nose. He turns his face away to hide a looming grin.

 

Sex with Percival is always rough. This is no different, and Newt finds himself craving for it as he spreads his legs, pants shredded to pieces. The first breach is a delightful burn, lighting up his nerves and unravelling a scream in his throat. He claws at the forest floor when Percival pulls out, only to slam in again with just enough force to make his insides ache.

 

Percival sets a brutal pace. There is no finesse, only a violent shove-and-fuck that scrape their knees raw. Newt cannot stop moaning when sparks of pleasure rip through the white-hot pain. If there were anything better than the feel of a hard cock inside him, then he never knew it.

 

“Yes, yes, yes,” he mutters against the bed of leaves, pushing back as far as he can. Percival is ruthlessly silent, holding back everything but the barest noises. This is how Newt knows that Percival is still angry. That this is still a punishment.

 

“Sorry,” he whispers, something sharp and terrible twisting his stomach. “I’m sorry. Please. I’m so sorry–”

 

Newt chokes on his own moan when Percival takes his cock in a tight grip. “There’ll be no next time,” he says, the first time since they started fucking. But it’s the fact that he sounds just as wrecked that makes tears flood Newt’s eyes.

 

“No,” he gasps, almost weeps. “Never.”

 

“Swear on it.”

 

“I swear, I’ll make a Vow if you–”

 

Percival fucks in hard, cutting the rest of his babbles. “So I can’t trust you without a Vow?”

 

“You can!” Newt sobs, trembling as he tries to reach around, to touch Percival’s hand, arm, face, anything. Percival’s magic denies him, twisting his hands above his head. Fresh tears bleed in Newt’s eyes. “Please, I’m sorry, please, Percival–”

 

“Now,” Percival snarls, cock grinding deep. “Come _now_.”

 

Newt makes a strangled sound, reeling. For a moment, his lust is marred by confusion, but his body proves better in obeying commands. His hips make desperate little thrusts, into Percival’s hand then back against Percival’s cock, but it’s Percival’s magic who answers to his plea.

 

“Like this,” Percival says, holding him still. His grip around Newt’s cock tightens to the point of pain and the sensation, this close to release, makes Newt jerk and squirm. Incoherent begging is wrecking his throat. He cannot move, pinned by the hard cock in his ass, feeling the unbearable stretch of it until his own twitches and spurts in the tight cage of Percival’s fingers.

 

It feels like an eternity before Percival finally loosens his grip. Newt’s breath explodes out of him in a rush. The bite of arousal is still sharp in his flesh, and so when Percival pulls him up, propped on both knees, and starts fucking him again, Newt jerks and howls but doesn’t try to escape. Instead, he digs his fingers into the earth and bears every unbearable thrust, scraping his throat raw with screams until Percival comes inside him.

 

Percival gasps, face pushed into the crook of Newt’s neck. His mouth is hot and wet when he presses his teeth, matching the bite he left earlier if a shade gentler. Newt relishes in it all the same, tightening around Percival’s softening dick until they both moan.

 

“Say it again.” The words, mouthed against the back of his shoulder, are slurred, as though drunk. “Did he hurt you?”

 

“No.” Newt blinks at the sound of his own voice, thin and raspy. “That, I believe, remains your privilege.”

 

Percival hums as he withdraws, careful to make Newt feel every receding inch. The gentleness is a double-edged knife. Trembling, Newt lowers himself, slowly, to curl on his side. He still feels like the barest touch will shatter him—but then he catches Percival’s eyes, the flecks of gold in their dark depth, and a grin rips its way to his lips.

 

“That was lovely.”

 

Percival’s face twists. The sudden press of his mouth on Newt’s is fierce, wrought with need. Newt shakes and whines, clinging to the heat of Percival’s body until he can feel a bit like himself again. More pliant. Less breakable.

 

“You’re sick, you know that?” Percival mutters against his mouth, every word like a lover’s caress.

 

Newt manages a garbled laugh this time. He clears his throat, equilibrium returning. “In my defence, your cock is utterly, utterly perfect.”

 

Percival snorts, and the sound loosens that tight, terrible thing in Newt’s chest. “I suppose I can admit the same thing about your ass,” he says in mock resignation and settles back between Newt’s thighs. “Up.”

 

Newt obeys, biting his lip in anticipation. He watches the flex of Percival’s muscles as the strong arms fold him in two. Then comes that ungodly smirk, pressed along the curve of his calf, on the inside of his knee, steadily going lower until it reaches that space between his thighs, and lower still.

 

Newt’s moan is obscenely loud when Percival works his tongue inside. Not for the first time, he sends prayer of gratitude for the privacy of the Percival’s sanctuary. His tongue is wicked, soothing every sting at first, gently probing, and then curling and seeking the depth his cock recently opened. Newt stares at the whites of his knuckles, pressed against his mouth to muffle his own noises. The slickness makes his face burn, but his chest fills and fills until it’s swollen with so much warmth that he drowns in it.

 

“Thank you,” he says when Percival retreats, leaving him feeling pleasantly open and well-fucked. He touches Percival’s face, stomach fluttering when Percival leans into the touch.

 

“Did you get it?”

 

Newt brushes his thumb over the soft crest of Percival’s upper lip. “Trousers. Or what’s left of them. Right pocket.”

 

Percival moves slowly, anticipation dragging his limbs. He finds the mangled article not far from where they lie. Newt keeps his gaze on Percival’s face, watching the tightness around his mouth melt into something brittle and pained. Percival says nothing for a long time, watching the small stone bleed all over his palm, this thing that holds his sanity. He looks gaunt, and a little lost, and Newt has to will himself not to cry again.

 

“You should’ve brought me.” When Percival finally speaks, his voice is thin with strain.

 

“He would’ve goaded you,” Newt says, as gently as he can. “He would’ve made it about you, not the stone.”

 

“I could’ve killed him.”

 

Newt hesitates. He doesn’t like contradicting Percival, but a wizard like Grindelwald will not be brought down by sheer desperation and an element of surprise. It will take planning, cunning, an unholy amount of patience, and more traps than he can think of right now.

 

“You will,” he says at last. “You’ve promised that you’ll fuck me next to his corpse, remember?”

 

That startles a laugh out of Percival. “That was _your_ idea.”

 

Newt blinks innocently at him. “But you’ve promised.”

 

Percival smiles, a sharply beautiful thing. Newt ducks his head to hide the violent wave of his own feelings. It’s vicious and terrible and frightening, and he knows that he will sacrifice the world ten times over only to protect that smile.

 

“Keep it,” Percival tells him, dropping the stone on his chest.

 

“What?” Newt stares at the spreading red, amazed. “You don’t want to destroy it?”

 

“I’d rather you keep it.” Percival’s voice is curiously steady and the press of his palm on the base of Newt’s ribcage is warm, comforting. “Might be useful one day.”

 

Newt carefully fingers the chain. It’s strange how these things work, and now that he’s in the presence of the real thing, the Soul Stone seems to have lost its pull on him. It feels cold, almost dead.

 

“He called you my pet,” Newt muses quietly. “I’d rather not give currency to that sort of insult.”

 

Percival makes an impatient sound. “What do you care what he thinks? I’m not asking you to do this for him.”

 

“It’ll be safer to destroy it.”

 

Percival is silent for some time.  When he finally speaks again, he sounds like a ghost who has seen hell and crawled his way back home. “I was there for months. Even after you had captured him, no one really…” He pauses, inhales a ragged, shuddering breath. “My point is, I’ll feel better if you know how to find me.”

 

Newt swallows and nods. Fractured and broken as he is, Percival rarely shows any of his vulnerability. “All right then. If that’s what you want.”

 

Percival’s smile is brittle but genuine. “Thank you.”

 

Newt shrugs, embarrassed despite himself. “I suppose it’s only fair that you put a tracking spell on me too?”

 

“I don’t have to.”

 

“Really?”

 

“You think I can’t find you if I want to?” Percival sounds almost amused. “One benefit of being what I am now, I suppose.”

 

“Huh.” Newt falls into thoughtful silence. “Never thought of that before.”

 

“You thought the knot was the only good thing coming from it?”

 

“I beg your pardon,” Newt exclaims, feigning offense. “The size of it, instead of the thing itself, is more to the point.”

 

“My little cock slut,” Percival says, all fondness. Newt’s heart flutters, the pathetic little thing, and when Percival secures the chain around his neck, he knows that it’s forever lost. He’s wearing a part of Percival, and the knowledge, the rise of a curious mix of emotions, make him blink furiously.

 

“You,” Newt hesitates, fingering the stone warily. “You aren’t going to look at me weird, are you?”

 

Percival raises an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”

 

“Well, because I’m wearing this? I mean, if you look at me and see this stone and it only reminds you of unpleasant things…”

 

“If anything, I’m going to look at you and see my knight in shining armour,” Percival says dryly. “You don’t think I’ve forgotten who pulled me out of that hell hole, do you?”

 

Newt frowns. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

 

“I think this is one of those things where we can agree to disagree,” Percival decides, a half-smile on his lips. “If I’m going to think of you as my knight, then I’m going to think of you as my knight and no one can tell me otherwise. Not even you, Sir Newton the Magnificent.”

 

“Your name is literally Percival,” Newt points out.

 

“Sir Newton the Quarrelsome. The Headstrong. The Incorrigible.”

 

“You just called me your little cock slut.”

 

“That’s hardly a fitting title,” Percival declares, yawning. Newt takes it as a cue to pull him down, grinning when Percival falls willingly into his arms.

 

“You can sleep. No nightmare anymore, remember?”

 

“Mm.” Percival smiles, soft and easy like he has never allowed himself. “Sir Newton the Nightmare Slayer.”

 

Newt makes a face as he reaches for his wand to transform a comfortable mattress. “If I do visit you in a dream, it’ll be sans armour. Sans everything else too, probably.”

 

“Sir Newton the Lecherous.”

 

“Your honour will be compromised,” Newt continues solemnly. “Your reputation ruined beyond redemption.”

 

“Maybe I should choose the nightmares.”

 

Newt grins into Percival’s hair. “Too late for that. We’re burning the rest of the Dreamless Potion tomorrow. You’re never going to need it again. Ever.

 

“The dreamcatchers too. They creep me out.”

 

“Excellent. We can have a bonfire here. Maybe in the desert, near Prudence’s rock?”

 

“A bonfire _inside_ a suitcase,” Percival mutters. “How you survived all these years without me is a mystery.”

 

Newt bites his lip, heartbeat stuttering. “I don’t know,” he says weakly. “The only thing I know is I’ll never be able to again. So. Don’t go, maybe?”

 

Percival goes tense. Newt’s stomach makes a lurch. That treacherous bit of honesty has turned to ash in his mouth. “Um. Let’s just forget it. Good night.” He starts to move away, maybe turn around to hide his hurt, but Percival has him trapped, limbs tight around him.

 

“Sir Newton the Heart Stealer.”

 

Newt blinks, then breaks into a grin. “I like that one best.”

 

“Thought you might.”

 

The grin follows him into sleep.

 

_**End** _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Rewrote the ending a few times and it got mushier each time, so obviously it's time to stop.
> 
> Also the knotting thing, I'm not sure if felines do it. Probably should've gone with wolf, but PANTHER.


End file.
